Those Sad, Red Eyes
by Merridian
Summary: When he gazed into them, it was like he saw an inevitable sense dread and hopelessness. Why did their lives have to be such tragedy? ONESHOT


**Disclaimer: **NGE doesn't belong to me.

**Author's Note:** I don't know what got into me when I wrote this. It's really short, and pointless, and kind of sad at the same time. I don't know—it's written, so read it if you feel like it. Review if you feel like it. It's oneshot-tastic.

On with the show…

* * *

He stared. That was all he could do at this point; stare. He couldn't move, couldn't think, he couldn't even breathe. He stood there; back straightened, mouth open by the slightest fraction of an inch, eyes widened as far as the lids would let them go. Every once in a while, he felt his hand twitch by his side—an involuntary spark the brain sent to make sure it was still alive. 

And she was staring back. Her irises bored holes into his own, mere inches away. She was so close now—so _very_ close now, and the gap between them was diminishing ever so slowly. Inches turned to half inches, then to quarter inches. The tip of her nose now tickled his cheekbone, even when he let his head slide forward the slightest bit to compensate for his height advantage. His hair lightly played across her forehead, moving in such a way as to create a peculiar, indescribable sensation.

His mind barely registered it. All he saw were those eyes; pupils dilated to accommodate for the dimming light in the room, the crimson flashing—glowing, almost—in what little rays the dying sun could provide. Those eyes were so sad; the way they framed themselves in her face, the way light played across the whites, the way she kept them half-lidded—as if to hide. There were no silent prayers of acceptance, no silent begging for attention, not even any sort of silent hope in those eyes. There wasn't any falsity there, nor any sign of truthfulness either. There was only the current situation—his reflection.

She tilted her head up the slightest fraction, never removing her gaze from his eyes. His skin was on fire, the nerves chaotically aware of his surroundings. They were sensing everything, registering it in some dusty part of his brain that would be accessed later when he tried to figure out what was happening. It was his nerves which had informed him that the window-mounted air conditioner was on, blowing into the darkening apartment at a steady half-pace. It was his nerves which had informed him of the grime which glued his socks to the floor of the entryway. It was his nerves, then, which had informed him—rather suddenly—that her hands had just pressed against his chest.

The feeling was exquisite. Goosebumps so painful it felt like hundreds of needles suddenly made themselves known across his arms and back, pushing the hair on the back of his head straight up. Without knowing it, he sharply exhaled the shallow breath he had been holding, visibly shaking yet still managing to maintain the unblinking stare.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, a painfully loud sound that seemed to echo into the otherwise silent room. She had to have heard it, she was so close—but she didn't give any outward indication. Didn't she care?

He was trembling now, amid his confusion. He had no idea what to do, how to do it—his conscience had returned from the brief break with a vengeance. He didn't dare make the first move. She was so close now, almost _too_ close. She gave no indication of making any move either, simply holding herself in place, arms awkwardly folded to her chest with the palms pressed against his torso, eyes portraying nothing save the closeness.

His right hand guided itself up to the side of her head. A shift in her eyes showed that she noticed the slight pressure he applied with his palm, cupping her cheek and sliding his fingers into the entanglement of her hair. He almost heard the barely audible sigh escape her lungs, if it weren't for the loud pounding of his heart against his ribcage. Yet still, he didn't make the move to close the mere fractions of inches between their lips.

The left hand stayed firmly at his side, awkwardly, unsure of what to do with itself. It shook slightly, its own nervousness all to clear across the pale, smooth flesh. He wanted to do something with it—if only to just ease the hand's uncomfortable tremors. She made the move for him, shifting her own right hand upwards and sliding her body sideways, pushing her shoulder into his own and forcing his vacant hand around her waist. It turn, her face was pushed even closer to his, her right arm finding its way around his neck. Yet still, she refused to go the final step.

It was so awkward it was painful. His mind refused to let him do what his body wanted. His panicked indecision was clear in his eyes, the way his ankle seemed to twitch involuntarily, the way his left hand lightly—but firmly—clenched her hip.

Her forehead seemed to gravitate to his, and that was the last kick his brain needed to be silent. He swallowed what little was left of his irking conscience, and let his lips lean into hers.

She didn't close her eyes. Neither did he.

They stayed like that; frozen, wrapped up in each other; limbs entangled and entwined, and stared. Her eyes remained vacant, only echoing back the eerie, crimson reflection of himself. He couldn't think about that—he could barely even register that fact. He only felt her closeness.

After an eternity of seconds, their lips parted. There was a vaguely peaceful silence which fell between them, then; the air conditioner and street noise long since faded into the background.

"I think…" her voice brought back coldness of reality. It was just louder than silence, carrying with it the calm certainty that was her being. "I think I may be the second."

He blinked, thrown off guard by the simple statement. "W-what?"

Then she looked at him—_really_ looked at him. Her eyes didn't just lock with his, they focused on the infinite depths behind them; into his very soul and being. It was the first time she had ever really looked at him like that. It was odd, he thought. He couldn't describe the feeling, but if he had to, he'd probably have said that it was like she broke through every barrier, façade, and wall he had ever put up, and had just peered into the very place he had once called sacred.

He felt overly vulnerable.

He felt terrified.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, then pulled away from his stoic embrace and planted a firm hand on his chest, before she pushed him out of the door to her apartment. He stumbled awkwardly into the cramped hallway, shocked as to what was suddenly happening to him.

It wasn't until he heard the sound of the door's lock being engaged did he realize that he was finally alone.

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At approximately noon the next day, the object known only as Armisael was identified as possessing an AT pattern code Blue, and was reclassified as the Sixteenth Angel by the Magi.


End file.
